Harald watched the House Thornvale warrior walk away, and only realized belatedly that his fists were clenched. A murderous instinct arose within him, a violent and mad desire to plunge after the man and destroy him.
But that truly was mad; not only was Thracos far too powerful, but that wouldn’t remove House Thornvale as a threat.
“Well,” murmured Vic, smiling and turning to exchange glasses adroitly with a passing servant. “Relax, Harald. We’re being watched.”
“Relax?” Harald all but hissed through his teeth.
“Of course. So what if you’ve been blackmailed by an egregiously untrimmed bush. We’re in the public eye, and everyone is drinking in the consequences of that exchange.”
Harald willed himself to open his hands, and for a moment simply occupied himself with draining his glass. The wine was light, fruity, and delicious; in moments it was gone, and when he exchanged it with another servant, he felt marginally in control of himself, if not the situation.
“Vic,” he said, pitching his voice low even as he willed his expression into one of genial neutrality. “What the hell was that?”
“My mind’s scrambling for an explanation,” agreed Vic. “People are calling me a yapping lapdog? I can’t believe it. I refuse.”
That more than anything helped Harald ground, and when he looked to his friend, brow raised, Vic put a hand to his chest. “I’m insulted. I really am.”
“I feel your pain, and pray to the Fallen Angel that you recover your poise and sterling reputation. In the meantime, I was hoping you could reflect on what Thracos said to me.”
“Oh, that.” Vic sniffed. “Yes. I would venture to place his words in the ‘not good’ category. What do you think?”
“That I should have brought Nessa.”
“Nessa would have fought you every inch of the way into this place, and I do mean with a naked blade. No, your best alternative would have been Sam, and—well. Enough said on that front.”
Harald simply shook his head and stared morosely out across the hall. It had grown surprisingly crowded, though there were obvious centers of gravity that pulled people into the orbit of key figures. Lady Hammerfell was one such, her formidable frame elevating her above the mass of admirers that surrounded her. A Jade Empire warrior wearing the silver and sky blue of House Silvershield was another, his graceful poise and refined attitude making him an island of stillness amidst the conversation that was taking place around him. He spotted Anita Lothbury with a few other Emberfell members close to the auction house entrance, and a couple of House Celestara dignitaries who were watching from the hall’s far side, clearly keeping a pulse on the situation.
The crowd parted, and a woman in her late twenties approached, clad in regal attire that spoke to her elevated station. She affected none of the martial accents that most others present seemed to prefer; her gown of rich golden brocade flowed to the ground, the bodice cinched tight and a marvel of craftsmanship, embellished with ornate, geometric patterns and studded with precious stones.
Her burnished orange-red hair was styled with precision, swept up and held in place by jeweled clasps, and her deeply freckled face was marked by a look of sharp intelligence and an unyielding gaze. Pearl earrings offset the small white ruff from her high-collared gown, and though her clothing and bearing were stiff, her face was alive with curiosity.
“Ah, Countess Sonora,” said Vic, bowing low with a flourish. “The day is saved.”
“Victor.” The countess came to a stop before the pair of them, but her vivid hazel-green eyes were on Harald. “The pair of you have caused quite the stir.”
“May I introduce the cause of the hubbub, the estimable Sir Harald Darrowdelve.” Vic gestured as he half-bowed and stepped back.
“Countess Sonora.” Harald inclined his head graciously. “You’ve been a true ally during my times of need. I can’t thank you enough for your generosity.”
“If I recall correctly, I strong-armed you into a predatory interest rate.” The countess smiled wryly. “And now find myself as little more than a low-ranked petitioner interested in taking your measure. You must be sick of being evaluated and fielding offers veiled in flowery language.”
“Some not so veiled,” said Harald. “But I mean it when I say you saved my honor by vouching for my duel. You had no cause other than Victor’s word to put so much wealth on the line. I truly appreciate it.”
“Then I’ll cease insisting on my mercenary motives and instead accept your gratitude.” She inclined her head, her smile never quite leaving her lips. “Victor must have warned you this would happen once you registered your leap in power with the Mining Consortium.”
“He hinted at it, yes.”
“I did more than hint, but what could be done? Harald here had already achieved the impossible and chosen to display his prowess for all the world to see. It was too late for me to intervene.”
“This is where I ask how you did it,” said the countess, “and you politely deflect my interest. I then probe as to your intentions and if you’re open to such a modest patron as myself, and you express gratitude for my interest but refuse to commit. I leverage Vic’s loyalty to secure a private audience, and you accept out of obligation born of misplaced gratitude. I depart, you bow, and my calling card is quickly shuffled to the bottom of the deck.” The countess accepted a drink from a passing servant, sipped it, and turned away to survey the crowd. “A tiresome business. Shall we skip it?”
“If you like.” Harald studied the countess, bemused. She was strikingly beautiful, though in a manner distinct from the polished perfection of the high ranked raiders; where their beauty had been cultivated by the absorption of scales, hers appeared natural, with the overabundance of freckles, harsh cheekbones, and barely masked exhaustion under her eyes somehow elevating her beauty, making it more striking, more real.
The countess was tapping her glass against her lower lip as Vic made a quiet report on a private affair; when he finally stepped back, she sighed, nodded, then glanced back to Harald.
“Sir Darrowdelve, I won’t presume to waste your time when you’re in such high demand. I’d hoped to corner you and secure an oath of loyalty, had even prepared an impassioned speech that would tug on your heart strings, but, well.” Her smile was self-deprecating. “Why align yourself with a small house such as mine when you can accept the patronage of House Drakenhart itself? So.” She extended her hand. “Let’s part as friends and leave it at that.”
Harald raised her knuckles to his lips, and surprised himself by blurting out, “Countess Sonora, perhaps I could come by your estate, ah, with Victor here at your convenience? I have the means now to settle our debt, and perhaps we could…” He drew a blank, and was saved by the memory of Lady Hammerfell. “… have tea?”
“Tea?” Countess Sonora raised a dark brow. “But of course, Sir Darrowdelve. My social calendar is a barren wasteland. Drop by at your convenience.”
Vic bowed low as she departed, and for a moment both men simply watched her go.
“So that was Countess Sonora,” said Harald.
“She’s a breath of fresh air, isn’t she?” Vic grinned. “I knew I could work for her after she called me out on my innuendoes with all the frankness of a fishwife. I confess I didn’t know how to respond, then blushed for perhaps the third time in my life.”
“She’s definitely unlike every other noblewoman I’ve met. How did she come to be so… direct?”
“Her grandfather was a raider of some fame at the turn of the century. Like your father, I suppose. But he also proved to be a canny politician and forged an alliance with House Drakenhart, as well as investing his wealth in a Marheim tin mine. When this proved immensely profitable, he expanded into owning interests in a dozen Marheim foundries. Her father was cut from the same cloth; he raided for most his youth, then settled down to expand their mercantile interests.
“Countess Sonora was an only daughter, and her father, well. I think he decided to simply pretend he’d had a son, and raised her in such manner. She toured their ownings in Marheim a dozen times growing up, and trained at war with mercenaries, the captain of their guard, as well as a private fencing instructor that she badgered her father into providing. She’s more at home hunting boar from horseback then wearing those incredible dresses. You should see how she curses them in private.”
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“I see.” Harald rubbed the back of his head. “But what happened to her father’s financial empire?”
“The Marheim civil war’s what happened.” Vic shook his head. “Their holdings were claimed by the Black Iron Baron a decade ago, and five years later their tin mine ostensibly played out. Anna believes it was calculated; the Baron’s move to starve her family of the finances necessary to hire a significant military force, then the mine itself when they felt safe from her wrath. And, well, they were right.”
Harald shook his head. “Bad luck.”
“Not quite.” Vic smiled coldly. “There’s evidence that some local Flutic lords took advantage of the situation to ensure the downfall of her family. Her father, well. It seemed he made enemies by sneaking into boudoirs he had no business being in. The outraged lords have been sharpening their knives for years.”
“Count Gorkin.”
“Indeed. Her father had a terrible end. Ruination, loss of his holdings, impoverishment, and then when he was at his worst, he disappeared. The countess swears he was killed, but has no proof. So now she struggles on alone, refusing to bend knee, but fortunately for her, she has Victor Carmine at her side.”
“So it’s a true tragedy, through and through.”
Vic scowled at him. “It would have been had Nessa and I not had our hearts’ broken by her plight and agreed to help. As is, she’s holding on by her fingertips. For a countess, that is. As I said before, she could accept defeat and become a wealthy Baronet by tomorrow, but that would complete Gorlick and his shadowy cabal’s victory, so she refuses.”
Harald saw the countess depart the auction hall, pulling a rich cloak over her shoulders as a servant raised an anticipatory umbrella. Unlike the other lords and ladies present, she left alone, without hanger’s ons or servants of her own.
“Looks like you’re drawn to broken nobles, Vic. I detect a pattern.”
“What can I say?” Vic put his hand to his chest. “Despite my ironic exterior, within my chest beats a heart of gold.”
“Right. Well.”
Vic eyed him. “Careful, Harry-boy. You’ve the same pensive look I had before agreeing to help her.”
“It’s not that. It’s just obvious that she’s had a hard time of it. I admire her tenacity.”
“That’s exactly what I said to Nessa. She threw a rotten persimmon at my head and declared me a fool. Three years later, here we are.”
“It’s not as if I have a choice, after all,” said Harald quietly. “Given what Thracos said.”
“Fuck Thracos in the goat-ass.” Vic finished his wine. “We’ll find a way to cut his throat and convince House Thornvale to leave you well enough alone.”
“Didn’t you say Thornvale’s had a meteoric ascent in power? How are we supposed to do that, exactly.”
“A meteoric ascent that we can now deduce was fueled by nefarious means.” Vic crossed his arms and stared across the crowd to where Thracos stood with other House Thornvale warriors. “And while I obviously don’t know how we’re going to get you out of this yet, I’ll be damned if I just allow you to roll over and give up.”
“I never said I would.” Harald resisted the urge to reach for another glass of wine. “I just don’t know how to fight them yet. The moment I do, however, I’ll go for the throat.”
“That’s the spirit. Ah. Master Ling’s about to commence the festivities.”
Master Ling rang a delicate bell, and soon all conversation stilled, attention moving to the front of the hall.
“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished visitors all, the estate auction is about to begin. Please, move to the left bidding gallery, and take your seats!”
To Harald’s surprise only half the crowd began to drift forward, while the remainder either stayed in place or began filtering toward the exit.
“Alas,” murmured Vic, looping his arm through Harald’s and leading him forward. “It seems you were the main attraction, and not your belongings.”
People he’d never met or even seen before nodded to him as they passed the central retaining wall with its altar, and then descended a few steps into what looked like a church of the Fallen Angel.
Pews were lined up on both sides of a central aisle, leading to a raised dais at the hall’s far end, where a lectern was set to one side and a display table covered in a white cloth in the center. Flowering miniature trees grew up along the walls, and the lighting here was dimmer, so that the audience sat in a dusky twilight.
Harald and Vic were singled out by a hostess, and taken to a cunningly hidden spiral staircase set just within the wall. This one was of several, Harald noted, each giving access to a balcony just overhead whose interior was shielded by black lacquered weave.
Their balcony was broad enough for three seats, and these were luxurious, the lacquered weave easy for them to peer out through while providing obfuscation from the crowd below.
“Not everyone who wishes to bid desires to have their interest made public,” said Vic, stretching out with a sigh, then springing back up to bend over a small shelf of bottles that he’d just noticed. “Not that I’ve ever been up in one of these, but my doing so is long overdue.”
Harald watched the crowd below, seeking recognizable faces. Lady Hammerfell didn’t make an appearance, but Sir Bandos was there, stiff and staring straight ahead. Miss Anita Lothbury was in evidence, as was the silver and sky-blue clad lord of House Silvershield, his demeanor calm, his bearing distinguished. No members of House Thornvale, though the observers from House Celestara were also present.
Master Ling appeared on the stage, and gave an overly verbose introduction, going on at length about Darrowdelve Manor’s many wonders and luxuries, and how gratified he was to see such a strong turnout in his humble auction house.
“By the gods Master Ling likes to hear himself talk,” yawned Vic, popping open a small bottle of champagne. “Bubbly?”
“No, thanks.” Harald’s stomach was taut with tension. Servants were moving upon the stage. A printed copy of the estate sale was on a shelf by his elbow, and it felt strangely awful now to see his possessions brought out into the stark light.
Sinking back into his chair, he ignored Master Ling’s voluble descriptions of his father’s silverware, the painted vases, the decorative steel plates forged in Dumrûn.
“I fear the excitement is over,” said Vic. “Still, we must see this through. With a little luck we’re due to raise a Zenith Tide by the time we’re done.”
The bidding on the first set began at a single Golden Dawn. 100 scales, an aggressively low starting point meant to incite eager participation.
“The finest dwarven plates, inlaid, as you can see in this example, with polished steel dioramas portraying the grand entrance to Dumrûn itself. Exquisite craftsmanship! Not to mention this complete silverware set with over ninety items. And more! Do we see an initial bid?”
Miss Lothbury raised a golden token that indicated another Golden Dawn.
“Thank you, that’s two Goldens, do we have -”
The silver and blue wearing member of House Silvershield raised an iridescent fan.
“An Aurora Veil Driftshell and two Goldens from Sir Jin, very nice, very nice. Do we have another?”
Sir Bandos raised his iridescent fan.
“Two Auroras, two Silvers for this very fine set of dwarven plates, a complete and exquisite set of silverware, along with four elegant vases and assorted kitchen items! Do we—oh.”
One of the House Celestara agents had raised another fan, which was immediately followed by Sir Bandos raising another. Lord Jin raised a third.
“Lovely, remarkable, we’re at five Aurora Veils and two Silvers from Lord Jin of House Silvershield, a wonderfully perceptive bid, these are items of unmatched quality—”
“What the actual fuck?” hissed Vic, leaning forward to peer through the woven slats. “That lot’s estimated to be worth a single Aurora Veil at most.”
Sir Bandoes grimaced and raised a deep blue fan.
Master Ling blinked, momentarily unsure of himself, then smiled broadly and bowed to the knight. “A Zenith Tide from Sir Bandos of House Drakenhart, beautiful, ravishing, putting us at 15,300 scales.”
The crowd stirred.
“What the hell is going on?” whispered Vic. “They’re not bidding on those stupid dwarven plates, are they?”
“Those were my mother’s plates,” protested Harald woodenly.
“Fuck your mother’s dwarven plates.” Vic turned to stare at Harald, eyes wide. “They’re bidding on you, Harry-boy. Look at Master Ling. I think he’s already ejaculated twice into his breeches. This is going to get wild.”
Lord Jin raised a deep blue fan.
“Another strong raise! Fabulous shining bliss! We’re at 25,300 scales from Sir Jin. Do we have a counter? Going once? Going twice? Going thrice? Gone to the illustrious Lord Jin for two Zenith Tides, five Aurora Veils, and three Golden Dawns!”
“You’re joking,” croaked Harald.
Lord Jin’s expression remained serene, but he raised his face to stare directly at Harald through the woven slats as if he could see him clear as day. Harald’s eyes widened, but the House Silvershield warrior merely inclined his head a fraction of an inch, then turned back to the stage.
Vic’s grip on Harald’s arm could have crushed stone. “Darling. Didn’t we write into the crew contract that all profits from this auction were going into the crew fund?”
“No,” said Harald, fighting the urge to laugh. “We absolutely didn’t.”
“A crime. If that’s what they bid for your mother’s dwarven plate…”
“But what do they think’s going to happen?” Harald watched as the auction house employees began rolling out a series of family tapestries hung from metal frames on wheels. “That I’ll simply agree to join whomever spends the most scales on me?”
“Actually? Yes. This has turned into an arena, Harald. Of course! How obtuse I’ve been. Of course they’d think of this as a means to contest for your interest. I mean, a Zenith Tide is nothing for a major House, but it’s a way to force pre-eminence amongst rivals and impress upon you their willingness to invest scales and power in your rise.”
“But fuck, Vic.” Harald felt like he was drowning. “They don’t even know my class. I’ve only Ascended to one Throne. This is absurd.”
“Ah, darling, how little you know.” Vic relaxed, lounging back in his chair. “Harvesting rates are at a cataclysmic low. Worse, the Iron Levels are about played out. You know this. Which means new graduates of the Academy or enterprising free agents have to either spend years killing pathetic monsters to eke some measure of growth, or dive into the deeper floors before they’re ready and be butchered.”
“But the Houses could just invest scales in them and help them Ascend quickly.”
“And their levels, darling?”
Harald frowned. Of course Vic was right. Scales could help you Ascend, could open your Thrones to empower your Abilities, but Levels only came as a result of experience.
“Precisely,” said Vic, nodding knowledgeably. “And then along comes Harry-boy, cute as a button and twice as round—well, all right, no longer the case—along comes Sir Darrowdelve, hulking and surprisingly muscled, and he leaps 1,000% while raiding on the 4th Level. Either you’ve hit upon a trick that will benefit the rest of their House, or you’re the next Seraphine the Skyward Blade.”
“Or I’ve made a deal with a demon,” muttered Harald.
“Which, it seems, House Thornvale is intent on capitalizing on. As well as our Lord Jin down there, if your father’s letter is to be believed.”
Harald leaned forward again to study the House Silvershield warrior. Handsome, refined, and utterly composed, he looked as far from a demon-worshipper as Harald could imagine.
“Fuck me,” he muttered, pulling at his face.
“Five gorgeous tapestries!” called forth Master Ling, beaming in ecstatic anticipation. “Remarkably woven and in peerless condition! Shall we start the bidding at… five Aurora Veils!?”